Fused Souls
by heiots
Summary: Rachel Matheson and Sebastian Monroe share a complex relationship of more than just captor and captive. Perhaps they have more in common than they realize. Includes flashbacks of the 4 years.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Here's a little ficlet that may or may not turn into something more...just like the Bass/Rachel relationship. This is just the starting of my diving into the complexity of this pairing. The title reveals my hope to do further exploration with this couple. They're both like time-bombs. Touch them the wrong way, and they'll explode in your face.**

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**Chapter 00  
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_She watched him, likening him to a wolf prowling about in the deep of the forest, waiting for the opportune time to pounce on its prey. That was how she viewed their relationship. She never knew when he was going to attack, and as a prey, wasn't she entitled to keeping herself protected?_

_He was in his militia uniform as usual, looking smart, not a strand of hair out of place, hands behind his back, a stance she was familiar with, the image of the calm and collected dictator in control. _

_But she knew better. Dig a little deeper under that composed surface and be prepared to rouse a dominant volcano. She had been in that position plenty of times. Stood at the edge of the crater, looking down at the face of death, the glowing liquid fire nearly blinding, the intensity of the heat capable of melting her skin, and anticipating the eruption. _

_Plenty of times, she had ventured there, but she had always emerged unscathed. So often that she had lost her fear of the danger. Sometimes she just took a kind of sadistic pleasure in pushing his buttons just to see if he would react. More often than not, he would survey her with his dark eyes, wearing an attitude best described as a parent resignedly indulging a child that needed to be coaxed into behaving. On occasional days, when his nerves had already been frayed from whatever issues he had faced from his men, and his patience was running low, that was when he would get rough with her. _

_Whenever he came in for visits, the air would crackle. With what exactly, she wasn't too sure, but if she were to describe their behavior as the entire situation unfolded, she would think they resembled the __lycaon pictus__, or African wild dogs, circling and sizing each other up, threatened at the thought of their territory being infringed upon. They would test the waters, to see how each was feeling that day. It was a little like the game of tag, only significantly edgier and with greater consequences. He knew she wasn't entirely harmless either. Entertaining thoughts of doing away with him was not a strange occurrence, and she knew he was aware, having acted out on her impulses before. _

_Today, she had lost the match, and had very nearly lost her life in the process. She had stood at the peak of the volcano and had nearly been extinguished. _

_Guess that was what happened when one played with fire._

_He had made one round of the room. Not one word had been spoken between them. His gaze travelled to her, and as an instinctive reaction, she dropped her eyes downward. She had no intentions of letting him know he intimidated her, and most days, she could hold her own, but this time, she could smell her own fear in the air. _

_She heard his boots clomp on the floor. She counted each and every one of them. _

_Then, there was the gentle click of the door shutting._


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Many thanks to boasamishipper for being my beta reader, and ****for putting up with my nonsense, as well as **whytewytch for being my backup beta! All feedback and ideas are welcomed!

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**Chapter 1**

_Light. _

_People who come in seem as pale as the faint light that barely breaks through the small dirt-streaked window, her only connection to the outer world. So weak are the rays that manage to filter into the cell that all they reveal to her are the rough estimates of what part of the day it is, yet she treasures that single bond to the outside. _

_Candles are her only other source of light. If someone chooses to make a night visit, which very rarely bodes of good tidings, he would bring a candle to light his way. That little flicker of brightness would hypnotize her in the darkness of the room. Like a moth, she would be enticed by the flame, yet it would always go away in the end. She is not entitled to the privilege of having a candle of her own._

_She shuts her eyes. The darkness seems less despondent when her eyes are closed. At least she can tell herself that all is pitch black because she chooses it to be. Her mind is too astute to be fooled. It knows it is nothing more than a pitiful effort to generate a positive emotion, yet she would take that option over sinking in this depth of hopelessness that always comes when the light is gone, when the shadows descend and start converging in her world._

_Sitting up on that lumpy mattress, back against the hard wall, she tries to rummage in her mind for memories that would take her to a happy place. Sometimes, it would work. She would lose herself in innumerable recollections and forget that she is kept in this stuffy hole. When she opens her eyes, it would be another day. It is how she has managed to survive the nights. _

_The tune of the carousel that she and Ben once took the kids to patters its rhythm in her head. She hums the Parisian melody, letting her mind invoke the image of the spinning ride with the harnessed horses and their alternating up and down motions. She surrounds herself with the cacophony of people chattering, babies crying, children screaming with laughter, and the untamed symphony of different melodies playing on the various rides. She feels the sun on her face, the heat on her skin. In her mind's eye, she squints against the uncomfortably bright rays of the afternoon, so glaring that it hurt if she stared for too long. The bud of the artificially coloured blue cotton candy has melted in her mouth, leaving the lingering taste of sugary sweetness on her tongue. _

_For one moment, she can almost trick herself into believing that she is there. _

_Almost. _

_The rattling of the door breaks through the fragile memory of the past, robbing her of the chance to escape the prison that encloses her. _

_Resigned, she lets the thoughts fade back to the abyss where they reside. She cracks open her eyes to find the pallor of dawn's light instead of the stunning golden rays of the day. The air is stale once more. The warm sunshine that she felt morphs back to a chilly dampness. _

_Like the elusive light, the temporary fleeting happiness of the memories would always seep away._

_It is someone unfamiliar who enters her room this morning. It is not Miles, nor the soldier under him that she is used to seeing for the past year. As the military man in his grey-blue uniform acknowledges her with a smart nod, she wonders what has happened to them. She is afraid to ask, afraid of the consequences of posing a question to one of the militia, afraid to ponder what this new change might mean for her. _

_Have they decided that they are weary of her evasiveness? Do they plan to roughen her up to prove that they aren't to be messed with?_

_Her mind threatens to run wild with these thoughts, so she distracts it by focusing on her new companion._

_The soldier is well built, clean-shaven, and his uniform is impeccable. His blond hair is kept neat, and he stands straight and tall. Proud. He lacks the aura of deference that a new military man often has. The colour of his uniform is proof that he is not a new conscript. She makes all these observations, keeping her mind busy, and concludes that he must be in a high-ranking position. She does not need to see, but already knows that the mark of all the men who are recruited in the militia must be branded on his wrist. _

"_Mrs. Matheson. Please."_

_She is astonished. Were those words addressed to her? In a surprisingly respectful tone, no less. _

_He stands by the open doorway, chin up, back straight, as he focuses his gaze on a point somewhere ahead of him._

_It takes a moment for her to gather the courage to venture a question. One particularly bad experience that left her with the painful memory of a handprint on her face has made her cautious. The slap was dealt by a supercilious soldier who either didn't know, or had no regard for, her importance, or the fact that she was related to one of the most powerful men in the militia. She supposed the value of all prisoners were the same to him. Worthless. That day, Miles had enquired about the reddened mark on her cheek, his tone emotionless. _

_She never saw that one soldier again._

_This man, however, seems to bear no similar traits with the one who thought she deserved punishment for her curiosity. Still, when she ventures the question of asking where they are going, she ventures with a tentative and wary step._

"_General Monroe has arranged for a change of accommodations for you, Mrs. Matheson."_

_Bass?_

_Her brow furrows. Not once has he sought to meet her, much less done anything for her, since the year of the Blackout. It was always Miles she saw since she gave herself up to the militia. _

_Why would he want to make changes? And why now?_

_The beginnings of a tiny rebellious wave rise within her. "And if I don't want to?"_

_There is a pause where her words hang in the air. She does not miss that almost imperceptible twitch of the soldier's face. Her words are exceptionally daring and unarguably impertinent, and he chooses to ignore them. _

"_General Monroe has requested specifically for you to be moved today, Mrs. Matheson," he carries on, stoic once more. "He says he hopes you will be happy with the change."_

_Certainly he is mimicking these words from Bass, who would have known that she would hear them. She is not at all comforted by this sudden turn of events, which on the surface seems nothing more than a deed of good will. She does not know what kind of game he is trying to play, but a faint suspicion is growing. Shed the ornaments of the carefully selected words, and the ugly truth is plain to see. His prettied up request is nothing more than an order._

_Left without much of a choice, she follows him._

_Down the long, dim, and musty hallway they go, footsteps echoing in the empty space. Independence Hall appears to be a building that is largely unoccupied. During the four years she's been here, she has never seen more than a couple of people at once, a number that she can easily count on one hand. Of course, one isn't exactly in the best position to have company when one is held captive. She has, after all, spent most of her time locked up in a dingy storeroom. _

_They meet no one on their way to their destination. As they pass the windows of the passageway, she hungrily absorbs the sights and colours, cravings that her body has been denied. She can almost hear the flags getting whipped madly by the wind, and her skin itches to feel the warm caress of the air. Even the slightest breeze would suffice. _

_The soldier does the courtesy of opening one of the two doors on the left, and then, he stands aside to make way for her. _

_She hesitates. What should she expect to find waiting for her? Another similar cell of four walls and a window unable to see through? Or perhaps a torture chamber of some sort?_

_With one wary look at the soldier's passive face, she takes the step across the threshold, and her mind grows quiet. In utter silence, she takes in all that is before her: the queen-sized bed, the Victorian-style couch by the fireplace, the massive cupboards, and the tables carved from wood. There is even a grandfather clock situated between the windows. _

_She spots a pile of books stacked atop the closest table. There is paper, and pens, she sees. They have provided stationery, and by the other side, there are candles. Not just one, but plenty, situated across the room. In the midst of conflicting feelings, she recognizes a flicker of joy. She will have all the light she wants at night. _

_For four years, she has lived life in a small, enclosed area with sparse furnishing. What meets her eyes is nothing short of pure luxury. _

_Her mind takes note of such details as she walks into the spacious room, and she wanders to the great panes of glass. Faint pink dusts the expanse of blue. Against the vastness of the skies, she spots a little fluttering of wings._

_Oh, to be free as a bird._

_She releases her breath in an inaudible puff. Surely they must have made a mistake. It is unheard of for a prisoner to be held in a place such as this._

_She turns back._

_And there he is._

_He stands at the doorway, motionless, watching her._

_She cannot find it within her to say his name. A part of her feels an aversion to the scrutiny. It seems like an invasion of privacy, but shouldn't she already be used to that?_

_He strolls in, a slow, deliberate saunter. She holds his gaze, not wanting to be the first to break eye contact, not wanting to show the faintest sign of fear. Is it really possible that this one man is capable of the deeds that have reached her ears? It has been years since she has last seen him. The rugged features, the unruly hair, the self-assured look on his face. None of it has changed. He smiles. She does not bat an eyelid. _

_He chuckles, perhaps at her obstinacy, and drops his gloves on the study table. "Rachel."_

_His voice is as she remembers it: timbre smooth, and dripping with honey. Many women it has enticed. _

_A small frown has crept onto her face. She pulls her gaze away from him._

"_What? No greeting for an old friend?"_

_His words, though he tries to pass them off in a joking manner, have an edge to them and reek faintly of alcohol. She wonders for a moment what would cause him to drink this early in the day, and then, brushes away the thought. What should she care? Perhaps it has become his habit. It wouldn't surprise her. He did love to drink even then, when she thought she knew him. _

"_What are you doing here, Bass?"_

_The corners of his lips curl in what appears to be a wry smile. "The first words I hear from you. What are you doing here, Bass," he repeats with unnecessary emphasis on each word. His voice is soft, stroking. It would mislead a person into believing how much power this man holds in his words alone. "No 'nice to see you' or 'glad you're still alive'," he continues. He pulls out a chair from the table before her. The sound of its back legs against the floor grates on her already frayed nerves. "Not what I expected, Rachel."_

_She is saved from a reply when a soldier steps into the room. A tray is set on the table, its contents easily recognizable._

_Not stale sandwiches or cold oatmeal, but a perfectly flipped omelette with hash browns on the side. There is even a garnish on it_

"_I brought breakfast, in case you were hungry," he mentions casually, leaning back against the chair, legs crossed. Her stomach betrays her by rumbling in response, and he smiles. "Clothes too. I hope you find all of them to your liking." He tilts his head at the dark mahogany wardrobe by the door. "If you need anything washed, or water warmed for your baths…" He shrugs as if it is no big deal. "Just ask. These men will get it done."_

_She is baffled by his treatment, and the questions that bombarded her earlier arise in her mind. _

_Why is he being nice? Miles never gave her special privileges. _

_The answer that seems most plausible emerges from her pool of thoughts, clear as crystal, and it bears the name of reverse psychology. Miles's way of breaking her isn't working, so he's trying out his own methods. Two best friends, two different ways of handling issues, one common goal. One would withhold food and water to get her to talk, and the other is offering her all the advantages that even an official would not have. _

_Of course, all of the superficial politeness is only a means to an end, and all these luxuries pale in comparison to what she has lost._

_Family, and freedom._

"_Where's Miles?"_

_His face changes slightly. _

_That mask of his is not impenetrable after all. _

_She wonders if she is capable of reaching out to him. God knows she has tried with Miles. A couple of times, she thought she was getting somewhere, thought she was so close to bringing the old him back. _

_Apparently, she never managed to do so. _

_His eyes are impassive once more. He motions for her to start eating. She does not. Sensing her reluctance, he laughs a short, brash laugh, and her stomach recoils at the sound of it. "Afraid I'd poison you? It's safe, Rachel. I put nothing in your food." _

_His disturbing laugh dissipates into thin air, leaving an oppressive silence in the room._

"_We need you, remember?"_

_His words seem to prove her point. Staring into his darkened gaze, she thinks there is absolutely nothing she can do to bring him from the edge. _

_Her hunger is gone. It is as though she is back in the cell with the imposing darkness. There is no warmth. _

_Even after he is gone, she stands there, lost in thought, as the rising sun casts the beginnings of shadows on the ground. _


End file.
